


tsumibito.

by Mima (MissMima)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14945106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMima/pseuds/Mima
Summary: There's a specific name for the feeling of puking in a Denny's bathroom at 3:23 AM on a Wednesday, but Fukawa hasn't come up with it yet.It's something close to "100 meters below rock bottom."





	tsumibito.

**Author's Note:**

> to be honest i'm republishing some random backstory snippets (presented as short flashback scenes and in no particular order) from a roleplay that i'm writing. mostly just stuff to get me more involved in figuring out a concrete background for her and in the mood for writing her, as well as setting something of a tone and explaining her mentality.
> 
> i don't think i need to warn anyone, but considering this is about fukawa's backstory, there are likely going to be scenes graphically depicting abuse and violence down the line.
> 
> emetophobia warning in advance for this chapter.

There's a specific name for the feeling of puking in a Denny's bathroom at 3:23 AM on a Wednesday, but she hasn't come up with it yet.

It's something close to "100 meters below rock bottom."

Between heaves she assesses the damage. Not-quite-dry blood underneath her nails. Her glasses covered in some smudges of unknowable origin- though she doesn't think it's blood. Left thigh still stinging. She wishes she didn't know why. Her head hurts as much as her stomach.

Why couldn't she just have a drug addiction, like all the other depressed authors out there?

Her only saving grace is that she's alone in here- she would rather die than have anyone hear her vomiting and sobbing all at once, let alone anyone that knew her name.

It's humiliating to wipe her face with the tissue-thin sandpaper they put in the stalls, but it's better than her sleeve this time. She doesn't want to be berated for staying out this late, and especially not accused of illegal activity beyond just breaking curfew. Of course, underage drinking may be easier to shrug off than serial murder, but it still puts her on edge. Knowing her life, one will just lead into a spiral of the other being found out.

So she staggers out of the stall and towards the sinks, jumping a bit when the door slams shut behind her. Not so much to wash her face as just to wash the bitter taste of acid out of her mouth. Yes, perhaps it was a mistake to assume her manic self should be allowed to make decisions on eating while she starved in silence. But that doesn't bring her appetite back, not after this. Not after any thought over what she'd done.

Looking at the blood on the cuff of her sleeve, she realizes she has to brace herself to hear another name on the news as she sits wordless at the breakfast table again. She retches once more at the thought.

All she could do was hope he deserved it. She was too afraid, afraid for her own life, afraid of the consequences, afraid of losing everything she still had- too afraid to try to stop herself.

Another pang of pain courses through her head, and she momentarily loses her balance, slamming her elbows onto the edge of the sink in front of her. Would it be suspicious to call in sick from school tomorrow? Her paranoia tells her that of course it would be. With all the more eyes on her because of her writing, not to mention her weakness- skipping class is tantamount to suicide by cop. Maybe one day wouldn't kill her- but who was to say that one day wouldn't become a habit?

She picks at the crimson dirt under her nails until she can't tell if the pale rusty color still marring the stream is the blood of the last victim or her own. So she goes over each one at least once more to be sure. Two shakes, and she wipes them off on her skirt. Pushes the door open with her forearm.

In that one step she is assaulted on so many levels and senses at once she staggers, almost heaves again- but by now she's too empty to even complete it. The workers glance up, but regard her with only a mix of mild bemusement and pity. A look that makes her grit her teeth. She pulls her shoulders in closer, hangs her head, and glares at any whose gaze lingers on her too long. Silently she pulls a 1,000 yen bill and some coins from a pocket and tosses them on the counter, stalking out without saying a word or even waiting for a reaction.

Maybe she'll just be hit by a bus on the way home and never have to worry again.


End file.
